The  Story  Of  A  Frlendsh 


Josephine  Mildred  Blanc 


UNIVERSITY 
AT   LO 


OF  CAL8FORNI 
S  ANGELES 


Trie  Storj?  of  a  Friend* 


A  California  Reminiscence 

of 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

His  fe"W  montKs  in  Monterep  and  his  old  friend 

JULES  SIMONEAU 


BY 

JOSEPHINE  MILDRED  BLANCH 


\        I.I  I  '.Iv'  IS 


"Doomed  to  know  not  Winter,  only  Spring. 
A  being  trod  the  flowery  April  for  awhile, 
Took  his  fill  of  music,  joy  of  thought  and  seeing, 
Came  and  stayed  and  went, 
Nor  ever  ceased  to  smile." 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


/' 


Trie  Stor9  of  a  Friendsnip 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
Jules  Simoneau 


A  California  Reminiscence 
of  Stevenson 


BY 

JOSEPHINE  MILDRED  BLANCH 


'This  stor^  -Was  -Written  a  year  previous  to  tKe  death  of  Simoneau,  •vi'Kich  occured  in  1908 
All  quotations   in   this   book   are   used   by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner  Sons,  Publishers. 

Copyright   1921,  J.  M,  B. 


]ULES  SIMON EAU,  TELLING  OF  STEVENSON 


Trie  Stor9  of  a  Friendsnip 


"So  long  as  we  love  we  serve;  so  long  as  we 
are  loved  by  others  I  would  almost  say  we 
are  indispensable,  and  no  man  is  useless 
while  he  has  a  friend." 

— Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

I  never  leave  a  certain  modest  dwelling  hidden  behind  the 
brow  of  one  of  the  surrounding  hills  of  the  old  town  of  Monterey 
without  thinking  deeply  on  the  subject  of  friendship.  I  have 
sought  the  house  often,  as  has  many  another  visitor  to  the  town, 
and  though  its  unpretending  exterior  tells  nothing  of  the  gener- 
ous and  princely  heart  of  the  gentle  old  man  who  lives  within, 
and  although  Monterey  is  filled  with  crumbling  adobes  of  his- 
toric interest  to  the  tourist,  yet  this  vine-grown  cottage  is  more 
often  sought  than  any  of  the  decaying  landmarks  which  might 
tell  some  story  of  the  eventful  past  of  this  early  Spanish  town. 

It  is  to  the  home  of  Jules  Simoneau  that  I  go,  an  humble 
shrine,  where  the  lovers  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  in  search 
of  some  reminiscence  of  the  gifted  writer,  may  hear  from  the  lips 
of  this  dear  old  friend  something  of  his  few  months  in  Monterey, 
one  of  the  most  pathetic  pages  in  the  life-history  of  Stevenson, — 
those  most  eventful  months  which  followed  his  departure  from 
Scotland. 

27375,'J 


All  readers  of  Stevenson's  life  may  recall  this  period  which 
marked  the  turning-point  in  the  author's  life,  when,  as  he  writes, 
"feeling  that  he  had  now  grown  to  his  full  stature  of  manhood 
when  every  man  should  cease  to  be  a  burden  to  his  father,  and 
having  learned  his  craft,  every  circumstance  seemed  to  point  out 
that  the  time  was  now  come  for  him  to  seek  his  own  livelihood 
and  justify  his  independence." 

That  realization  was  awakened  in  Stevenson  by  his  parents' 
opposition,  because  of  his  youth,  to  his  romantic  attachment  to 
the  woman  whom  he  so  deeply  loved,  and  who  a  few  months 
previous  to  this  had  returned  to  America  and  was  ill  in  Califor- 
nia. On  Stevenson's  return  to  Edinburgh,  hearing  of  her  illness, 
he  immediately  decided  to  waive  all  objections  of  parents  and 
friends,  and  leaving  both  in  almost  total  ignorance  of  the  hopes 
and  motives  which  prompted  so  sudden  a  departure,  sailed  for 
America.  So  it  was  for  her  whom  he  loved,  and  of  whom  he 
writes, — 

"Trusty,  dusky,  vivid,  true, 
With  eyes  of  gold  and  bramble  dew, 
Steel  true  and  blade  straight 
The  great  Artificer  made  my  mate" 

that  he  gave  up  Scotland,  friends  and  kindred,  and,  enduring 
untold  hardships  on  his  journey  over  sea  and  continent,  reached 
the  far  West  almost  penniless  and  fainting  with  weariness.  So 
much  had  the  long  journey  affected  Stevenson  that  when  he 


reached  San  Francisco  he  looked,  it  is  said,  "Uke  a  man  at  death's 
door."    But  the  news  which  greeted  him  was  most  gratifying. 

Stevenson  spent  only  a  few  days  in  San  Francisco,  whence, 
to  recover  from  the  ill  effects  of  the  journey,  he  continued  his 
way  southward  and  camped  out  for  a  while  in  the  mountains 
beyond  Monterey.  Here  he  remained  several  weeks  quite  ill. 
For  two  nights  and  a  day  he  lay  out  under  a  tree  in  a  kind  of 
stupor,  and  there  two  frontiersmen  in  charge  of  a  goat  ranch 
found  him  and  nursed  him  back  to  life.  From  this  place  he  writes, 
"I  am  now  lying  in  an  upper  chamber  with  the  clinking  of  goat 
bells  in  my  ears,  which  proves  to  me  that  the  goats  have  come 
home  and  it  will  soon  be  time  to  eat."  After  his  illness  he  found 
his  way  down  to  Monterey.  Very  unlike  the  thriving  little  town 
of  the  present,  intermingling  its  ruins  with  modern  residences, 
was  the  Spanish  town  of  that  day  as  Stevenson  found  it,  with 
"two  or  three  streets  economically  paved  with  sea  sand." 

Here  he  fell  ill  again,  but  found  quarters  curiously  to  his 
taste,  as  he  tells  you,  for  they  were  "simple  though  discriminat- 
ing." He  lodged  with  his  doctor  and  took  his  meals  at  a  restau- 
rant, and  this  is  the  introduction  which  he  gives  us  to  the  little 
French  restaurant  kept  by  the  kind  "Pere  Simoneau,"  who  cared 
for  him  through  all  these  months.     He  describes  it  thus: 

"Of  all  my  private  collection  of  remembered  inns  and  restau- 
rants, and  I  believe  it,  other  things  being  equal,  to  be  unrivalled. 


o  >, 

P  ^ 

:^  o 

Q  O 

o  3; 


one  particular  house  of  entertainment  stands  forth  alone.  I  am 
grateful  indeed  to  many  a  swinging  sign  board,  to  many  a  rusty 
wine  bush,  but  not  with  the  same  kind  of  gratitude.  Some  were 
beautifully  situated,  some  had  an  admirable  table,  some  were 
gathering  places  of  excellent  companies,  but  take  them  all  for 
all,  not  one  can  be  compared  with  Simoneau's  at  Monterey.  To 
the  front  it  was  a  barber  shop,  part  bar.  To  the  back  there  was 
a  kitchen  and  a  salle  a  manger.  The  intending  diner  found 
himself  in  a  chill  bare  adobe  room  furnished  with  chairs  and 
tables  and  adorned  with  some  oil  sketches  roughly  brushed 
upon  the  wall  in  the  manner  of  Barbizon  and  Cernay.  The  table 
at  whatever  hour  you  entered  was  already  laid  with  a  not  spot- 
less napkin  and,  by  way  of  epergne,  with  a  dish  of  green  peppers 
and  tomatoes,  pleasing  to  both  eye  and  palate.  If  you  stayed 
there  to  meditate  before  a  meal  you  would  hear  Simoneau  all 
about  the  kitchen  and  rattling  among  the  dishes." 

This  is  the  graphic  description  which  Stevenson  gave  of 
the  little  French  restaurant  which  was  held  in  high  esteem  by 
the  Bohemians  who  sought  Monterey  in  those  early  days,  and 
no  doubt  if  this  description  had  not  been  interrupted  we  should 
have  had  a  pen  picture  of  this  newly-found  friend  with  whom 
Stevenson  "played  chess  and  discussed  the  universe,"  who  was 
his  angel  of  mercy  during  these  most  tragic  months  of  his  life 
when  he  lived  'twixt  hope  and  despair,  awaiting  the  freedom  of 
the  woman  whom  he  loved,  fighting  ill  health  and  poverty  and  at 


that  time  doubtful  of  a  literary  fame  which  was  as  yet  to  be  won. 

It  was  during  these  dark  days  that  this  friendship  grew 
between  Simoneau  and  Stevenson.  We  can  imagine  the  depth 
and  strength  of  this  bond,  the  old  man  caring  for  the  young 
fellow  as  he  would  have  cared  for  his  son,  the  young  man  con- 
fiding to  him  all  the  hopes  and  longings  which  tore  his  sensitive 
heart.  No  wonder  that  the  memory  of  this  friendship  is  hallowed, 
one  whose  lingering  beams  throw  the  brilliancy  of  a  halo  around 
Simoneau's  latter  days. 

Simoneau  never  tires  of  receiving  his  friends,  and  he  meets 
them  with  a  warm  hand-clasp.  He  tells  you  that  most  of  his 
visitors  are  good  company,  "for  people  who  read  Stevenson  are 
usually  good  company,"  and  as  he  speaks  of  the  past  a  tender 
smile  plays  over  his  aged  features,  a  smile  which  proves  a  friend- 
ship the  recollection  of  which  brightens  his  uneventful  life.  It  is 
with  the  greatest  pride,  and  yet  with  a  reserve  which  shows 
that  his  friend's  personal  letters  are  most  sacred  to  him,  that  he 
hands  you  one  to  read, — a  letter  written  from  La  Solitude, 
Hyers-les-Palmiers,  Var, — a  bright,  cheerful  letter  in  which 
Stevenson  speaks  of  his  happy  married  life  "with  a  wife  that  suits 
me  down  to  the  ground." 

This  is  only  one  of  the  numerous,  strong  and  beautiful  let- 
ters which  Stevenson  wrote  him  on  his  return  to  France,  letters 


^LV.'-irfi j«--.i>Vir  x'^K.;^  ^'-■^'-■rfA^^  ^■ar 


CORNER  OF  ADOBE  SHOWING  WINDOW 
OF  ROOM  OCCUPIED  BY  STEVENSON 


i 
I 

i3 

& 

a:  -^ 

Q  f^ 
"-J  > 


which  are  sacred  to  Simoneau,  and  he  tells  you  they  will  never 
leave  his  hands.  "Gold  could  not  buy  them,"  and  we  believe  it 
to  be  true,  such  fine  sentiment  exists  in  him  and  has  character- 
ized his  life. 

He  is  a  great  philosopher,  and  it  can  well  be  imagined  how 
Stevenson,  during  his  convalescence,  "discussed  the  universe" 
with  him  in  the  evenings.  Happiness  and  contentment  are  his 
constant  companions,  and  he  says,  "While  some  are  preparing 
for  a  heaven  somewhere  in  the  tomorrow,  I  am  making  a  heaven 
of  today,"  and  so  he  lives.  Most  tenderly  does  he  bring  out  the 
treasured  works  of  Stevenson,  each  volume  a  gift  from  the 
author  and  made  priceless  by  some  beautiful  expression  of  grati- 
tude written  therein.  In  a  volume  of  "Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde" 
is  written,  "Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  but  a 
stranger  case  would  be  if  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  should  forget 
Jules  Simoneau."  In  a  volume  cf  "Virginibus  Puerisque"  is 
written, — "Que  nous  avons  passe  de  bonnes  soirees,  mon  brave 
Simoneau!  Sois  tranquille!  Je  ne  les  oublierai  pas!"  ("How 
many  good  evenings  have  we  passed  together,  my  kind  Simo- 
neau !    Rest  assured,  I  shall  never  forget  them.") 

On  the  walls  of  his  humble  dwelling  hangs  a  portrait  of  his 
illustrious  friend — the   gift  cf  Mrs.   Stevenson — while  directly 


JULES  SIMONEAU  AT  THE  AGE  OF  86 

Portrait  Sketch  by  Josephine  Blanch 


underneath  are  the  inspired  words  which  embody  the  philosophy 
of  Stevenson's  life,  which  philosophy  his  humble  friend  so  beau- 
tifully sets  forth  in  his  living, — 

"To  he  honest,  to  be  kind,  to  earn  a  little, 
to  spend  a  little  less, — to  make,  upon  the 
whole,  a  family  happier  b^  his  presence.  " 

Although  the  years  have  passed  and  Stevenson  now  sleeps 
'"neath  the  wide  and  starry  sky"  and  many  changes  have  come  to 
the  little  Spanish  town,  the  old  man  lives  on  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
six,  not  in  his  little  French  restaurant  as  in  the  old  days,  but  in 
his  quaint  cottage  surrounded  by  an  old-fashioned  garden,  a 
modest  shrine  where  the  worshiper  of  genius  may  spend  an  hour. 


^^^ — *- 


%^^^   P^' 


273753 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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